Like a Fish in the Sea
by CagedCanary
Summary: Not every girl from district four wants to be a part of the Hunger Games. Annie Cresta just happened to be one of the unlucky few who have been reaped. Let the 70th Hunger Games begin.


**A/N:** I had a nice poll about this a while back. In it I asked which story would you, as Hunger Games fans, would rather read about, and then I listed several. With over half of the vote, here is the winner. A story about the 70th Hunger Games. The story about a girl who never meant to win. Annie Cresta. I hope you all enjoy it. Please leave reviews for the first chapter and tell me what you think so far! Hopefully I'll be able to update soon. Anyways, thank you to all of you that voted!

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games series belongs to Suzanne Collins. I am simply writing as a fan.

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The first thing I register when I awake from my slumber is the soft sea breeze gently blowing into my room through the open bedroom window. I stir in my sleep, my eyes flicker open for a brief moment before I squeeze them tightly shut again even though I know I will not fall back asleep. Today is the fourth reaping of my life. Growing up, I've never understood the aspect of volunteering for the Hunger Games. When I was younger and would ask my father about it, he would hush me and say it was a great honour to be apart of the games. But no one in our district has won the games since the great Finnick Odair. It was rare that someone in our district who was not a volunteer to win the games, but Finnick had succeeded wonderfully. Perhaps he had been training before after all, not that I would know. I tend to pay as little attention to the games as I can. Ever since I was a child watching the games on television has given me nightmares. I always dream that I am in the arena and being hunted down by the other players. So normally when they show a rather violent scene, I close my eyes really tightly and cover my hands over my ears. I tend to do this when something in my world isn't quite right, like when my parents used to fight or when father would begin skinning a fish for our meals. If caught, my father would scold me for reacting this way, often ignoring my anxieties. Because there was no way anything could be wrong with their daughter. So without treatment I tell myself worse things could happen and always tend fade away into my own little world, where everything is perfect, far away from my worries.

After five minutes or so, I slide my bare feet onto the cold rough wooden floor of my room. I gently rub the sleep from my eyes and almost in a daze-like trance I trail over to the large mirror nailed to my wall. My hair long dark hair is hopelessly tangled again, the salt from the sea tends to worsen it. When I was younger my father used to call me his little fish, because neither he or mother could pull me away from the water for too long. Swimming has always helped calm the many worries that are always rushing through my mind. My skin is lightly tanned from the many hours spent in the sun. My wide sea green eyes stare back at me for a moment or so. I stay this way until I hear my mother calling from the downstairs of our small house. I can't make out what she's saying because I have once again closed my mind from the outside world, but, as though I was sleep walking, my feet find themselves moving down to our kitchen. Mother has prepared my usual breakfast; fresh eggs and a single slice of bread, tinted green from the added seaweed. But today I notice she's included a small gift; a handful of strawberries. She must have traded at least two dozen eggs from our two hens for these. I know it's meant to be a gift for the reaping.

"Oh Annie... What have you done with your hair? Did you forget to brush it before you went to bed again?" The gentle voice of my mother tuts. I can feel her beginning to run her long fingers through my knotted hair, she pulls at the stubborn waves and I end up yelping in pain.  
"Mother..." I hear my tired voice plead, but she ignores me and instead I can hear the pads of her feet against the floor as she rushes into the bathroom and returns with a brush. She begins to more gently untangle my hair as I stuff bits of bread into my mouth. I can hear her start to sing a gentle tune to sooth my fussing. The lyrics tell a story of a strong handsome sailor who falls in love with a sickly mermaid. It's one of my favourites; mother used to sing it to me before bed as a child.

When I finished my breakfast my mother has finally managed to unknot my hair; it now falls into soft dark curls, framing my thin face, "There, much better," I offer her a soft smile as my father finally enters the room. He was working late last night so I can only assume my mother allowed him to sleep in, since today no one has to work. It is the day of the reaping, after all. Even with the extra sleep I can still spot the dark bags under his light blue eyes. He doesn't speak as he sits down and begins his own breakfast. My mother speaks to me again, "Annie, why don't you go upstairs and get dressed?" I nod, not wanting to argue and plead to simply skip the reaping to go swimming, like I do most mornings I do not have school. No one can skip today, of course, everyone has to attend. Unless they're on their death bed.

I easily find the dress my mother has left for me in my closet. It is an aqua colored knee-length sun dress. The sleeves are puffed and end a few inches above my elbow. It has an empire-waist and flows down in almost a bell-like shape. The neckline of the dress is decorated with small seashells. It has a sweet, almost innocent feeling to it. I love it already, though I bet my mother knew I would. There are matching aqua heels, that are only about an inch tall since mother knows I cannot handle more. I place a handmade necklace made with seashells around my neck (a gift from my father for my birthday) and I am finished. There's no reason to even bother with my hair any further, since my mother has already done the best she can.

I lay back down onto my single bed and stare up at the ceiling. I let my mind wonder and try my best not to think about the reaping. I don't know how much time passes, but after a while I can hear my mother call for me once again. I make my way back downstairs and find my parents waiting for me. Mother walks forward and takes my hand, holding it as if I'm still a small child as she leads me out the front door of my house and to where the ceremony is about to begin. I am glad she is, because I probably would get lost in the crowd.

Like always, I dread the moment my mother's hand lets go of my own. In that moment I am shuffled back with all the other sixteen year old girls. There are no smiles in this crowd, there never is. We all know we could very well have our name drawn and be taken away from home forever. I breath in slowly, ignoring the ceremony's usual beginning. I close my eyes as some form of relief, but I can't stop myself from shaking. I can feel the eyes my peers settling on me, but I am too busy trying my best not to get sick. I tell myself over and over again that if I am drawn, chances are that someone will volunteer, chances are that I will only have to step up on stage before another girl realizes I'm not fit to be in the Hunger Games. My name is only in there four times, my mother has always refused to let me take tessera. I am safe, I am safe. There is no way my name will be-

"Annie Cresta."

I freeze in my tracks. All the colour from my face drains. Did they just say my name? The fact that everyone is now staring at me confirms my worst fears. I have been reaped. I hopelessly search for the comfort of my mother's face, but I cannot find it as I am almost pushed up onto the stage. I'm barely able to hear the escort ask if there's any volunteers, but no one speaks. No one raises their hand. Oh my god, no one is raising their hand... Time is ticking by... One more moment... And it's over. No one has volunteered for me. I am walking towards my own funeral.


End file.
